


The Sharpest Lives

by canistakahari



Category: RED (2010)
Genre: Bonding, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Sickfic, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cooper is home sick over the Christmas holidays while his family is away, and Frank takes it upon himself to keep him company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sharpest Lives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Written for ayalesca. She wanted h/c where Cooper is home sick and Frank keeps him company and reads to him.

It’s a combination of things that leads Frank to William Cooper’s house.  
  
He spends ten minutes standing on a cheerful yellow and red welcome mat and wondering if he should ring the doorbell like a normal person or just break in. Would that be considered bad form? It says enough about him and the relationship he and Cooper do not share that he’s not even entirely sure what the answer to that question is.   
  
If he’s completely honest with himself, something Frank isn’t exactly in the habit of doing, it’s difficult to figure out why he’s actually  _here_. Yes, Cooper has the number for his secure cell phone; yes, they occasionally bother each other via text message, or, in moments of mind-numbing boredom, they exchange news and agency gossip and relevant information; and, yes, they even run into each other from time to time during clandestine operations. This year, they’d also exchanged Christmas cards, though, when presented with the evidence, it was clear that Sarah and Michelle had done the work, while Frank and Cooper had just signed their names to the bottom, perhaps not even aware of the identity of the card’s intended recipient.  
  
Seasonal greetings aside, Frank hasn’t been to Cooper’s house since the first and last time he broke into it, a time which admittedly couldn’t be described as a good experience for all parties involved. But, as Sarah is so keen on reminding him, it’s almost Christmas. And the message Frank had received early this morning, while not exactly urgent, did not inspire confidence.  
  
 **cooper @ 0546**  
oh god i am dying help  
  
 **cooper @ 0550**  
send tea and brandy and buckets of ibuprofen  
  
 **cooper @ 0621**  
merry fucking christmas. god is dead  
  
Frank didn’t bother answering the text messages. At the time, he wasn’t particularly sure what an appropriate response would be; definitely not  _LOL_ , despite the temptation, nor a regurgitation of the vague bits of Nietzsche Frank could dredge up from the depths of his brain.   
  
Nothing says “HO HO HO!” quite like nihilism.  
  
Instead, he’d gone to the store and obediently picked up a tin of black tea, a bottle of brandy, and a large container of Advil, and now here he stands on the welcome mat, quietly weighing the pros and cons of breaking and entering.  
  
He picks the lock.  
  
Inside, the corridors and rooms are dark, shadowed furniture looming out at him like ghosts and ghouls. His fingers itch to pull out his gun, but he reminds himself that this is a social call, and continues on throughout the house. The main floor is completely devoid of life. Frank stands in front of an enormous ten foot by ten foot painting of smudgy abstract art for nearly five minutes, trying to suss out how a guy like Cooper, who is all clean lines and neat hair and tightly-reigned protocol, gets saddled with such an imprecise and disordered piece of artwork.   
  
It could, he supposes, be his wife’s choice. But her influence is all over the house, and it’s a lot more rustic-sanded-wardrobe-and-painted-brick than this... thing taking up nearly an entire wall of the main floor.   
  
Something creaks upstairs and Frank abandons his silent contemplation of what is really, at its core, a fucking ugly-ass piece of shit.   
  
The stairs protest under his feet, but he slinks up as quietly as he can, and down the hall a door is propped open, a bit of weak light spilling out.   
  
He’s half-expecting a gun in his face when he pushes open the bedroom door, but it seems like Cooper is too busy being passed out in bed to notice him. The covers are mostly crumpled up at the foot of the bed, though Cooper has pulled up one corner to wrap around his stomach, and he’s sleeping heavily, sprawled partly on his side, his face mashed into a pillow he’s dragged down to the centre of the mattress and wrapped himself around tightly. The sheets are white, the duvet is white, Cooper’s t-shirt and boxers and pasty skin are white.   
  
It’s all very bleached.  
  
Frank sets his little bag of drug store purchases down on the dresser and sits on the edge of the bed. The only thing that isn’t white is the splash of Cooper’s thick dark hair, stuck to his forehead in damp clumps. He’s breathing with the kind of wet ragged inhales that indicate his lungs are full of phlegm, and, judging from his ruddy parted lips and occasional congested snorts, Cooper is well on his way to producing his own body weight in snot and mucus.   
  
“You’re so charming when you’re unconscious,” says Frank. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it: keep those germs to yourself. Seriously, kid, if I get sick—”  
  
Cooper snuffles into the pillow and makes an uncomfortable noise, his lashes flickering as he dreams, eyelids pink and shiny. Frank sighs.  
  
“I’ll take that as a ‘sir, yes sir.’”  
  


oOo

  
  
Frank makes a pot of tea in the immaculate kitchen, pouring it out in a deep brown mug that’s more like a soup bowl, adding a dollop of honey and a tiny splash of milk and, when he carries it upstairs, a dash of brandy.   
  
Cooper has since fully rolled over onto his stomach, his breathing still wet and strained, and Frank leans over him, cautiously shaking him awake by the shoulder.   
  
The attack comes from the side.   
  
Cooper flinches, makes a startled sound, sits up so quickly he nearly head-butts Frank in the chin, and then swings wide at the juncture of jaw and skull, trying to thump him behind the ear and knock him out.  
  
Fortunately, Frank is prepared and Cooper is kitten-weak, and he catches his wrist easily and then steadies him by the shoulder when Cooper sways and groans thickly, his eyes sliding shut in silent protest to the swirl of the room around him.  
  
“Buhdfket,” moans Cooper unhappily.   
  
“Yeah, you’re telling me,” mutters Frank, releasing his wrist.   
  
“No,” says Cooper, barely more intelligible but noticeably more urgent, “ _Bucket_!”  
  
Oh Jesus.   
  
Frank finds the bucket sitting by the foot of the bed and shoves it into Cooper’s lap just as Cooper hunches over and throws up violently, expelling very little despite his body’s considerable efforts to turn him inside out. As the fit continues, Frank finds himself sitting with one knee up on the mattress and one foot on the floor, rubbing the small of Cooper’s back as he trembles, not stopping until the gratuitous retching fades to panting breaths and sniffles.   
  
“What are you doing here?” demands Cooper, after he’s shakily set the bucket on the floor and toed it away from the bed. He flops down again as if he can’t sustain the energy required to sit upright, muscles twitching and skin pale and clammy with beaded sweat. He’s eyeing Frank with bewildered confusion. “It’s a little unsportsmanlike, taking advantage of a man’s weakened state in order to shoot him, Frank.”  
  
“I’m not here to shoot you,” replies Frank dryly, slipping off the bed to retrieve the mug of sweet, spiked tea, only handing it over to Cooper when he’s gotten himself propped up fussily against the headboard in a mound of pillows, slouching in exhaustion. “Though, just so you know, if I’d wanted to kill you and make it look like an accident, I would’ve just smothered you with any one of these fluffy down pillows.”  
  
Cooper ignores him. “Is there alcohol in this?”  
  
Frank gives him an enigmatic smile. “Who’s to say?”  
  
The indelicate and deeply disgusting snort that Cooper dredges up out of the depths of his clogged throat makes the hair rise on Frank’s arms and on the back of his neck. “You’re a life-saver,” mutters Cooper, eyes half-lidded as he takes a measured sip, groaning his approval when he swallows the hot, soothing tea. “Which means you’ve got to be a hallucination. Frank Moses wouldn’t come to my house to play nursemaid. Frank Moses would fuck with me. Frank Moses would ask for something ridiculous in exchange for this tea. I am not getting you a passport to—to Djibouti, or giving you access to a satellite. You can’t have a ride on the space shuttle.”  
  
“Let me guess,” says Frank, bemused, fishing out his cell phone and scrolling down to the texts from Cooper. “You don’t remember sending these.”  
  
Cooper squints at the tiny screen on the phone and then blinks owlishly. “No,” he says at length, “I don’t. Definitely a hallucination.”  
  
“Drink your tea,” commands Frank. There’s a certain satisfaction to be found in the way Cooper unthinkingly follows his order, tipping the mug into his mouth and taking another slow sip. “Have you eaten anything? You can’t take the Advil I brought until you eat something, too.”  
  
Cooper shakes his head, looking faintly green at the mere thought. “Can’t keep anything solid down. Just gimme the Advil.”  
  
“Soup,” says Frank firmly. “And saltines. Wait here. Don’t die.”  
  


oOo

  
  
Frank boils a package of dried chicken noodle soup that he finds in the cupboard, frowning at the neon yellow colour that sticks to the sides of the white china bowl, and digs out a box of stale crackers from the pantry. He arranges everything on a tray and carries it back upstairs, where Cooper is still curled up in a nest of blankets, eyelids drooping as he sits with his hands wrapped around the mug.  
  
“You look pathetic,” observes Frank, carrying the tray over to the bed and nudging Cooper’s legs flat so that he can balance the tray on his lap. “Where’s the family?”  
  
Cooper sets down the mug on the bedside table and then carefully picks up the bowl of soup, stirring through it for noodles and fishing up a couple in the big, flat spoon Frank managed to extract from the crammed cutlery drawer. He’s hoping it’ll result in less soup splashed onto clothing or pristine white sheets.   
  
This is precisely why the first thing Cooper does it dribble soup down the front of his t-shirt. Frank rolls his eyes and Cooper makes a pitiful face.   
  
“Christmas cruise. British Columbia and Alaska,” says Cooper, squinting at his soup with determined resolve and successfully scooping up a mouthful of noodles. “My mother-in-law is treating them. I was supposed to go, but then I picked up the black plague when I was in Seattle last weekend. They were going to cancel, but I told them to go on ahead and enjoy. Whale watch. Eat salmon. Admire the glaciers.”  
  
Frank shifts the tray a little closer to Cooper’s body. “You’ll be alone on Christmas?”  
  
“No,” wheezes Cooper, crumbling up a cracker and letting it soak up the unfortunate piss-yellow soup. “They’ll be back on the night before Christmas Eve.”  
  
Something eases in Frank’s shoulders. “And they’ll get the flu for Christmas.”  
  
“Har har,” says Cooper, giving up with the spoon and just wrapping both hands around the soup bowl and drinking it like tea.   
  
“Hey,” chides Frank. “Make sure you get some of those noodles in you. Don’t just drink that crap which supposedly passes for broth. Do you know how much sodium is in that shit?”  
  
Cooper blinks at him guilelessly with glassy hazel eyes. “I’ll stop drinking it if you don’t tell me,” he drawls.   
  
“Your arteries will thank me,” snipes Frank, absently straightening up the comforter from where Cooper has kicked and twisted and beaten it into lumps. He realises what he’s doing at exactly the same moment Cooper does, so Frank cuts him off at the pass with, “Finish your dinner, slick. Then you can take some nice delicious Advil.”  
  
Cooper, once again,  _hmphs_ , but does as he’s told, taking orders like a good little Marine.  
  
When Cooper has managed to consume half the mug and a handful of crackers, Frank lets him take two Advil, and Frank pulls up a chair and they talk about nothing while Cooper squirms and fidgets and tosses and turns, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable and go back to sleep. Frank abruptly presses the back of his hand against Cooper’s forehead, making the other man flinch.   
  
“Hmm,” says Frank.  
  
“There’s a thermometer in the bathroom,” mumbles Cooper, resigning himself to unwanted physical contact.  
  
“Don’t need it.”  
  
“Oh yeah? What’s my temperature?”  
  
“Damn hot.”  
  
Cooper rattles a wet laugh and flails around a little more. He kicks off all the sheets again and Frank methodically tucks him back in. “Stop it,” groans Cooper, glaring at him from over the pillow of his arms. It’s spectacularly unintimidating. “Sweating out a fever doesn’t actually work.”  
  
“You’ll get a chill,” argues Frank. “At least keep a sheet.”  
  
“You’re worse than my mother,” grumbles Cooper. “You don’t have to stay, you know. You fulfilled the requests set out in the text messages I can’t even remember sending you. You’re free to go. I probably won’t even remember you were here, considering my brain is being boiled whole inside my skull.”  
  
“Why, Agent Cooper. Are you trying to get rid of me?” asks Frank, hiding a smile.  
  
“It was that obvious, huh,” says Cooper flatly. He thrashes around in frustration, making a noise that could very well constitute a whine. Then he sullenly tugs the bare sheet around himself, scowling at Frank the entire time.   
  
“What’s the matter?” says Frank.  
  
“I can’t sleep,” whispers Cooper.  
  
Frank stifles his sigh. The Advil will kick in soon and then Cooper will drift off, and Frank just has to distract him until then.   
  
“Don’t move,” he says to Cooper, just to see his brows scrunch together in annoyance. He finds a wide flat children’s book in one of the kid’s rooms and returns to Cooper’s bedroom, sitting down in the chair by the bed. “Get comfortable, Coop. I’m going to read you a bedtime story.”  
  
“No,” says Cooper, blinking red-rimmed eyes at him. “No. You are  _not_  reading me  _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ , Frank. Go away.”  
  
“Shhh,” says Frank, propping up his knee to hide the cover of the book. “Close your eyes. Put your listening hat on.”  
  
“I hate you,” says Cooper, but he snuggles up to his pillow and closes his eyes.   
  
“ _My First CIA Operative Guidebook_ , by Frank Moses,” Frank recites in a faux-scholarly voice.  
  
Cooper snorts. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”  
  
“Less lip from the peanut gallery, please,” says Frank calmly. “This is an important text. You youngsters don’t know what real intelligence gathering was like, back in the day.”  
  
“Did you have electric lights and combustion engines?” mumbles Cooper. “Did you have  _hair_?”  
  
“This is the Central Intelligence Agency,” Frank pretends to read, studiously ignoring Cooper’s smartass remarks while he looks at a picture of a green caterpillar with a red segmented head. “The  _CIA_. It’s in Langley, Virginia. Do you know where Virginia is? It’s on the Eastern seaboard, north of Washington D.C.”  
  
“I can’t see the pictures,” grumbles Cooper sulkily.  
  
“Use your imagination.”  
  
Cooper mumbles something unintelligible and unquestionably rude.  
  
“There’s a lot involved in becoming a CIA operative,” continues Frank, watching as Cooper stops fidgeting and starts to sink, inexorably, back into sleep. “Most of your days in the farm are spent training in all sorts of interesting things, like shooting sniper rifles and learning how to withstand intense interrogation. You can also study new languages and learn how to use explosives.”  
  
“You sound like a really bad recruitment pamphlet,” slurs Cooper.  
  
“Hush,” murmurs Frank. “Sometimes we even get to jump out of airplanes.”  
  
He’s not sure how long he bullshits. He starts to run out of material when he diverges into black ops territory and his memories get hazy and jumbled; the story about the Colombian drug lord and the midnight escape in a donkey cart is considerably embellished, but Cooper doesn’t call him on it.   
  
Well. Probably because Cooper is finally  _asleep_.   
  
Frank leans forward, listening to Cooper’s strained but steady breaths, and reaches out to feel his forehead. Satisfied that he probably couldn’t fry an egg on his skin anymore, Frank sets the book aside and tucks Cooper back in, absently running a hand through his hair to smooth it back. Then he stands over the bed, considering the young, ambitious man sprawled out before him, reminding Frank not unpleasantly of what  _he_  was like, once.  
  
Frank is still not entirely sure why he’s here. Eventually, he just sighs and walks to the doorway to turn down the lights.   
  
“G’night, kid.”


End file.
